Eddie: The Press Screening

Posted: April 16, 2013 in Uncategorized
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Eddie: The Sleepwalking Cannibal 4.2.13

I left HB at 2:45, reckoning there’d be huge traffic; I was wrong. Rolled into LA around 4:00, thinking I could swing by Dapper Cadaver and look at the squishy things. This, however, would put me back on the 405 at rush hour(s), so I thought better of it. Walked a few blocks on Santa Monica, found a diner called Cafe 50s. Standard theme decor, though this place had obviously been around for a long time, which showed in the grime on the floors and the faded era-specific posters on the walls. Waitress called “Cherry” with Pippi Longstocking pigtails and a ton of foundation makeup, showing way too much gums over perfect white teeth. Friendly enough in a detached, big-city sort of way, charged me $25.00 for fries and a Coke, blamed it on the people who were at the table before me. The place was empty but for a couple of fossils two booths down, so go figure. Cherry knew the two old guys by name; they’ve probably been coming here since before any of us were born. That kind of place, and I mean that in a good way. Vintage music on the juke, mainstream enough to be pleasant, different enough to be mildly impressive.

Apparently this stretch of Santa Monica is the Persian area, evidenced by groups of men at outdoor tables playing dominoes and shouting and smoking exotic cigarettes, wearing five o’clock shadows they’ve probably had since birth. Homeless guy sitting against a phone pole, impossibly asleep amid the sound and stink of traffic, endless traffic, shitty cars putt-putting at a snail’s pace, expensive ego machines blasting past them, hellbent on getting to the next red light first. Lifelong city dwellers strut the sidewalk, fronting to all that they’re wise to what’s up, not daring show vulnerability, young Asians shuffling along, displaying that innate meekness and never, no not ever, making eye contact. I’m not a local; it shows in the rhythm of my footsteps, the way I can’t help looking around at all the stuff I see, my subdued aloha shirt may as well be a neon billboard, shouting to the world, “Dude, I’m totally not from here!” Yet I don’t feel any menace, just the desire to wrap this gig and get on down the line, back to the sterile safety of the ‘burbs, where things move slower and more predictably. I’m to saying it’s any better, not at all. Rather, it’s just familiar and known, and that’s what I’m needing now. And I’ll be back to it soon enough; I’m here in pursuit of the dream, sitting in the darkness and reporting what I see, hoping that my spin jibes with that of the artist, my neuroses writ large for the approval of strangers, struggling with syntax and narrative flow and trying to give words to the feelings of the deep dark, to make it universal and personal, to make it all make sense, to make it worth reading, to make it worth writing.

My timeliness OCD is in full effect; first person in the theatre, representing ZH like a boss. Very happy to not have to work tomorrow, needing a bit of time away from all that, and some time to gather thoughts and put them to paper (screen, actually, but whatever). Hoping I do it right, hoping I do it well and don’t fuck things up, hoping that this will help when the time comes to publish and publicize that damned book. How can it not? This shit is mine to own, and own it I will. The site relaunch will have my stuff all over it, as much as the boss wants. I’m not too old for this, writing is my dream, it’s my shot, it’s what I want to do, need to do, HAVE to do. This viewing gig is practice and marketing, the ball is in my court, and other sports metaphors I vaguely understand. I’m nine days away from forty-seven, and I think it’s going to be an excellent year. It should be, it’s a prime number after all.

Eighteen minutes till movie sign.

There is an old couple behind me, I don’t know their affiliation to this project, but he is continually hocking up epic amounts of snot and speculating about the cost of the theater’s recent renovation. Four bolts into concrete for each chair, wonder how they anchored the bolts, these seats must be at least two hundred bucks apiece, steel beams in the ceiling, that’s interesting venting and siding. He’s got to be a shemp of some sort, too bizarre to be real. Is this a thing they do for press screenings, a little avant garde entertainment for the jaded journalists? Are they in the wrong screening room, will they shut the hell up once the movie starts? Goddamn, I hope so.

Eleven minutes till movie sign.

Christ, you could rent this pair from Central Casting: Annoying Old Couple, great for parties and creating uncomfortable noise in quiet places. He’s now on what I’m assuming to be his Jitterbug phone talking about a manufactured home he wants to buy in Florida. I’m totally not making this up.

Eight minutes till movie sign.

Seven minutes.

Six minutes.

He’s still at it. They’ve just been informed that there’s some gore in this movie and not sounding pleased about it. The word “Cannibal” is in the fucking title, for fuck’s sake. Still yammering about the mobile home, oblivious to his surroundings.

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

I have not mastered the art of killing people with my brain, much to my dismay.

One minute.

It’s more comical than anything, we’ll see how things roll out once the lights go down. I can’t say anything, I’m here representing ZH. Over and over, this is my mantra. He just told whomever he’s talking to that he’s here to see “The Sleeping Cannibal.” It’s gotta be Seth McFarlane in costume, this is too stereotypical to be authentic.

Six minutes past movie sign.

Eight minutes past movie sign.

Apparently someone’s having trouble with their head gasket, according to Jitterbug Man.

Ten minutes.

Is this what Kafka-esque means? Surreal to the point of absurdity, annoying to the point of comedy. This has got to be a test of some sort. Please let it be a test.

Lights out. Fun time.

Update: Seems I forgot to link the actual review and director interview. Here it is:

Eddie: The Sleepwalking Cannibal

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